Hand over your heart / Let's go home
"Cold Desert," Kings of Leon
His hands gripped me by the waist, pulling me closer. I stumbled.
"So funny," he murmured. His eyes, glassy and green and deeper than a forest, pierced my own dull brown.
"What?" I managed, my body humming sweetly at the nearness of his.
"I'm the one s'posed to be drunk," he mumbled. "But here you are, falling all over the place."
I blushed, feeling sheepish. I wanted to say something, but I couldn't, I couldn't – my throat was too dry, he was standing too close, his skin was too warm, his mouth was too pink. His gaze was now burning a trail across my skin.
I stopped breathing.
His green left my brown, searched my face, lingered on my lips (I licked nervously; his eyes darkened). Long, careful fingers followed, traveling my collarbones, tracing protruding bones, feather-light and achingly soft.
I shivered. My heart danced in my chest, wanting to fly out of my ribcage and take residence in the spaces beneath his shirt.
"Bella," he whispered, dragging his eyes back up to mine.
All else turned to white noise, the backdrop to a voice that could bring angels to their knees.
"Edward..."
"Let's go home."